Mattie Potter - A parody
by TifenCardo
Summary: We all know how the story goes. But what if Harry was in fact... a girl named Mattie? What if the Dursleys were actually nice, the teachers at Hogwarts not that bright and the Headmaster not that gentle? What if Hermione was stupid, Ron a rich snob and Draco a sensitive little kitten? Please note that this story is purely humorous.


**_A/N: I am obviously a huge fan of Harry Potter and I would never, ever, defile the original story. If you can't take a little bit of humour, then I'm sorry but this story isn't for you. I do not own anything about this story: the characters, the places and the plot all belong to J. . Hope you like this first chapter!_**

Mr and Mrs Dursley, of number six, Public Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly unperfect, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to not be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just loved such nonsense.

Mr Dursley was the director of a firm called Gruntings, which made grinders. He was a small, ratty man with a normal neck and no moustache, although he wished he could grow one. Mrs Dursley was large and had brown hair but hardly any neck, which didn't come in very useful to crane over garden fences to spy on the neighbours. The Dursleys had a small daughter called Dary and in their opinion there was no uglier girl anywhere.

The Dursleys didn't have everything they wanted, but they had a secret, and their greatest wish was that somebody would discover it. They thought they could throw a big party if anyone found out about the Potters. Mrs Potter was Mrs Dursley's stepsister from their father's fourth marriage, but they hadn't met for several years; in fact, Mrs Dursley's stepsister pretended she was an only child, because she had lost count of her siblings a long time ago. The Dursleys shivered with anticipation to think what the neighbours would say if the Potters arrived in the street in their colour-changing car. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a small girl, too, but they had never seen her, except for that time when Mrs Dursley had broken into the Potters' house to take pictures of them in their sleep. This girl was another reason for stalking the Potters; they wanted Dary mixing with a child like that.

When Mr and Mrs Dursley woke up on the bright, sunny Tuesday afternoon our journey starts, everything about the clear sky outside suggested that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country. Mr Dursley tripped and fell as he was trying to get ready quickly, for he was very late for work. Mrs Dursley was singing happily as a perfectly calm Dary climbed into her high chair to read the newspaper.

They even witnessed a large tawny owl crash into their window.

At half past four, Mr Dursley tripped once more on his briefcase, kissed Mrs Dursley's hand and tried to wave Dary goodbye, but she was still reading, her eyebrows raised in a judging manner. 'Weird beast,' chortled Mr Dursley as he left the house. He climbed onto his bike and backed out of number six's drive.

It was in the middle of the street that he noticed the first sign of something excitingly peculiar -a squirrel reading a map. For five whole minutes, Mr Dursley stared at it -then he dropped a few nuts from his back pocket on the road and pretended he wasn't looking. When he risked a glance at it, there was no sign of a map, or nuts. Just the squirrel and some nutshells. What could he have been thinking of? Maybe the squirrel was allergic to nuts. Mr Dursley blinked a dozen times and smiled at the squirrel. It smiled back. As Mr Dursley pedaled around the corner and up the hill, he watched from above his shoulder. The squirrel was now looking at the sign that said _Public Drive_ -no, _reading_ the sign; apparently squirrels could read maps _and_ signs. Mr Dursley slapped himself across the face and put the squirrel in a corner of his mind. As he rode towards town he thought of a lot of things, especially a large order of grinders he was hoping to get someday.

But on the edge of the village, his hopes and dreams were driven out of his mind by something else. As he walked beside his bike to stretch his legs, he couldn't help staring at a lot of funnily dressed people walking around. People in sleeveless Monclers. Mr Dursley was jealous of people who dressed in funny clothes -it was so daring, so edgy! He supposed this was the newest trend in town. He hummed cheerfully and his eyes fell on a messy group of these typical fellows sitting in the gutter. They were yelling excitedly at each other. Mr Dursley was pleased to see that a majority of them were about as old as he was; why, that woman had to be at least ninety, and wearing a bright red sleeveless Moncler! How beautiful! But then it struck Mr Dursley that they were probably about to get arrested by the fashion police -some people around here could be narrow-minded sometimes… yes, that was bound to happen. Mr Dursley's bike left to live a life of its own, and a few minutes later, he arrived in the Gruntings entrance hall, panting and sweating.

Mr Dursley always sat on a pile of soft cushions on the ground in his office on the fiftieth floor. If he hadn't, he would have been able to daydream at ease that day. Because he wasn't sitting high enough to look out the window, _he_ didn't see the owls swooping past as the sun was setting slowly, though people down in the street did; they threw rocks at them and lit a bonfire as owl after owl crashed on the concrete floor. Most of them had never tasted roasted owls even at night-time. Mr Dursley, however, had a gloomy, owl-free rest of the day. He hugged five different people. He made several prank calls and got yelled at by most of his employees. He was in a very sulky mood until it was time to go home, when he had no choice but to walk across the road to buy himself a little something from the kebab opposite because his bike still hadn't returned.

He hadn't forgotten about the people in Monclers and passed a group of them next to the kebab. He eyed them longingly as he passed. He didn't know why, but they made him jealous. This lot were yelling excitedly, too, and he couldn't see a single policeman around. It was on his way back past them to meet his bike, clutching a fat burger and fries in a bag, that he caught entire sentences of what they were saying.

'The Potters, that's right, I touched them-'

'-yes, their daughter, Mattie-'

Mr Dursley stopped dead. Excitement flooded him. He looked back at the screamers as if he wanted to scream as well, but thought better of it.

He climbed on his bike and rode as fast as he could, which meant not really fast, towards home. If he had had a moustache, he would have stricken it. But he was being over-excited. Potter wasn't an unusual name. He was sure there were at least two people called Potter who had a small girl called Mattie. Come to think of it, he wasn't even sure his niece _was_ called Mattie. He'd only seen pictures of her. It might have been Mary. Or Josephine. There was no point in riding excessively fast, except for the burger getting cold in the bag. Besides, Mrs Dursley always got so ecstatic at any mention of her stepsister. He didn't blame her -if _he_ 'd had a stepsister like that… but all the same, those people in Monclers… He was so unfocused on his driving that he felt a huge bump on the road and, when he turned around, saw a tiny old man laying there.

'Sorry!' he yelled as the man scrambled to stand back up.

It was a few seconds before Mr Dursley realised that the man was wearing a peach Moncler. He didn't seem too happy at being ran over by a bike, but his face split into a wide smile and he said in a deep voice that made passers-by jump: "It's alright, my dear sir, for my Moncler is intact. Moreover, You-Don't-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating, this happy, happy day!'

Mr Dursley didn't let the man hug him and rode off. He had been called a Muggle, it was to him the greatest insult ever. Whatever that meant. For the first time ever, he was hoping he was imagining things.

As he pulled into the driveway of number six, the first thing he saw -and it improved his mood slightly- was the squirrel he'd spotted earlier. It was now sitting on a bench in the garden. He was sure it was the same one; it had the same adorable, fluffy tail.

'More nuts?' asked Mr Dursley quietly.

The squirrel didn't answer. It just gave him the thumbs up. Mr Dursley was sure it was normal squirrel behaviour. Trying not to look too happy, he let himself into the house. He was still debating whether to tell his wife or keep it all to himself.

Mrs Dursley had had a normal, boring day. She told him over dinner about Mrs Next Door's problems with her son and how Dary had learnt a new word ('multiculturalism'). Mr Dursley tried to act normally. When Dary had been put to bed, he went into the bathroom in time to catch the last report on the evening news:

'And finally, bird-specialists everywhere have reported that the number of owls is decreasing alarmingly. Although owls are really hard to count, there have been hundreds of sightings of feasts since sunrise, most of them comprising roasted owls. Experts are unable to explain why people have suddenly started eating owls.' The news reader allowed himself a grin. 'Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McMuffin with the weather. Going to be any more roasted owls tonight, Jim?'

'Well, Ned,' said the weatherman, 'I don't know about that, but it's not only people that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart as North London, South London and Central London have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they've had a sunny day! Perhaps the sun has been celebrating Christmas early -it's not until December, sun! But I can promise a dark night tonight.'

Mr Dursley started laughing uncontrollably. A sunny day in London? People eating roasted owls? Mysterious people in sleeveless Monclers all over the place? And screams, screams about the Potters…

Mrs Dursley came into the bathroom carrying two cups of tea and a bottle of Jack. It was really good. He'd have to say something to her. He scratched the back of his head. 'Er -Petunia, dear -you haven't heard from your stepsister lately, have you?'

As he had expected, Mrs Dursley looked excited. After all, they spent half of their life following her stepsister's every move.

'No,' she said sadly. "Why, have you?'

'Funny stuff on the news,' Mr Dursley said in a high pitched voice. 'Owls… The sun… And there were a lot of adorable people in town today…'

'So?' asked Mrs Dursley eagerly.

'Well, I just thought… Maybe… It was something to do with… You know… _Her_ gang.'

Mrs Dursley fell over in the toilet. Mr Dursley wondered whether he dared tell her he'd heard the name 'Potter'. He decided he didn't dare. Instead he said, as casually as he could because he didn't want her to drown, 'Their daughter -she'd be about Dary's age now, wouldn't she?'

'Give or take a few months,' said Mrs Dursley, sputtering.

'What's her name again? Josephine, isn't it?'

'Mattie James Potter -they thought for a long time she was a boy- it's still a lovely name, don't you think?'

'Oh yes,' said Mr Dursley, his heart pumping harder in his chest. 'Yes, it is lovely.'

He didn't say another word as they went in the other room to bed. While Mrs Dursley was dancing with joy, Mr Dursley pressed his nose against the window and looked down into the front garden. The squirrel was still there. It was staring at him as though it was waiting for more nuts.

Was he getting his hopes up? Could all this have anything to do with the Potters? If it did… If it got out that they were related to a couple of -well, maybe he could throw a themed party.

The Dursleys got into bed. Mrs Dursley kept dancing for a while before falling asleep but Mr Dursley lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His last comforting thought before he fell asleep was that if he had heard right, they would have a lot of reasons to come to his party. The Potters knew very well they were welcome in his and Petunia's home to teach them a few tricks… He wished he knew if he and Petunia could get mixed up in anything that might be going on. He yawned and turned over. He could do with a nice party…

How very right he was.

Mr Dursley might have been drifting into a peaceful sleep, but the squirrel on the bench outside was showing no sign of sleepiness. It was sitting with its legs crossed, its eyes fixed on the far corner of Public Drive. It jumped ten feet high when a car door slammed in the next street and squealed when two owls swooped overhead. But it was a tenacious squirrel, so it waited until it was nearly midnight.

A man appeared on the corner the squirrel had been watching, appeared so slowly and loudly you'd have thought the whole neighbourhood was awake by now. The squirrel crossed its tiny arms.

Nothing like this man had ever been seen in Public Drive. He was small, plump and reasonably old, although his hair and beard, which were both long enough for him to trip over them, were already silver. He was wearing tight robes, a purple sleeveless Moncler and high-heeled, lace-up boots. His blue eyes were light, bright and watery behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was short and crooked, as though it had been broken at least five times. This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.

Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to realise that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his Moncler was so very welcome. He was busy rummaging in his Moncler, looking for something. But he didn't seem to realise he was being watched, because he squinted at the squirrel without really seeing it. Probably because the squirrel was so small.

He had found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be a bright red extinguisher. He gripped it firmly, held it up in the air and activated it. The nearest street lamp went out with a sizzling sound. He used again -this time hitting two lamps at once. Eleven times he pressed the lever, until the only lights left in the whole street were the night lights he carried around on his shoulders. If anyone looked out of their window now, they would be able to see everything that going down on the pavement thanks to the night lights. Dumbledore threw the extinguisher over his shoulder and set off down the street towards number six, where he sat down on the bench next to the squirrel. He looked at it and, after a moment, spoke to it.

'I told you not to come here, Professor McGonagall.'

He cast a stern look at the squirrel, but it had gone. Instead he was glaring at a rather naive-looking woman whose hair looked exactly like the squirrel's tail. She, too, was wearing a sleeveless Moncler, a muddy brown one. Her fluffy orange hair was swaying in the light breeze. She looked rather pleased with herself.

'How did you know it was me?' she asked.

'My dear Professor, I have never seen a squirrel so laid back.'

'You'd be laid back if you'd been fed nuts all day,' said Professor McGonagall.

'All day? When you could have been climbing trees? I must have passed a dozen baby squirrels on my way here, all of them were playing around.'

Professor McGonagall chuckled merrily.

'Oh yes, the young ones like to play, all right,' she said eagerly. 'You'd think they'd be getting ready for winter, but no -even the Muggles know it's getting colder. I heard them talk about it.' She jerked her thumb back at the Dursleys' dark living-room window. 'It was on their news. Advertisements for blankets… and for full-sleeved Monclers… well, they're not completely stupid. They even lit bonfires and fed on roasted owls.'

'You can't blame them,' grunted Dumbledore. 'Owls do look appetizing. Although we need them to pass on the good news.'

'I know that,' said Professor McGonagall impatiently. 'But it looked so tasty. Moreover, we didn't need them today. People are being downright excited, out on the streets in broad daylight, wearing their best Monclers, swapping rumours.'

She threw a hopeful look at Dumbledore here, as though wishing for him to tell her something, but he didn't, so she went on. 'A funny thing it would be if, on the very day You-Don't-Know-Who seems to have disappeared at last, the Muggles came to party with us. I suppose he really _has_ gone, Dumbledore?'

'It certainly seems so,' said Dumbledore. 'We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for licorice?'

' _What_?'

'Licorice. It's a kind of…'

'I know what it is. Nastiest thing there is.' said Professor McGonagall with a crinkled nose, as though she couldn't believe someone could ever like licorice. 'As I say, if You-Don't-Know-Who _has_ gone…'

'My dear Professor, surely a careless person like yourself can call him by his name? All this "You-Don't-Know-Who" nonsense -for eleven years I have been trying to get people ki… To persuade people to call him by his proper name: _Voldemort_.' Professor McGonagall let out a shrill scream, but Dumbledore, who was busy munching on his licorice, seemed not to notice. 'It all gets confused if we keep saying "You-Don't-Know-Who" when we _do_ know who. I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort's name.'

'I know you haven't,' said Professor McGonagall in a shaky voice. 'But you're different. Everyone knows you have a death wish. Or is it because You-Don't -oh, all right, _Voldemort_ \- was frightened of you?'

'You flatter me,' said Dumbledore while clapping his hands. 'Voldemort had powers I'm too weak to have.'

'I know. But let's just pretend you're too -well- _noble_ to use them.'

'It's lucky it's dark. I haven't blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new beard conditioner.'

Professor McGonagall threw an admiring look at Dumbledore and said, 'The Monclers are nothing to the _rumours_ that are keeping us all warm on the inside. You know what everyone's saying? About why he's disappeared? About what finally stopped him?'

It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she was most excited to discuss, the real reason she had eaten nuts on a bench all day, for neither as a squirrel nor as a woman had she gawked at Dumbledore like a fish out of water as she did now. It was plain that whatever 'everyone' was saying, she was not going to believe it until Dumbledore had given her his blessing. Dumbledore, however, was choosing another licorice and wasn't listening.

'What they're _saying,_ ' she raised her voice, 'is that last night Voldemort turned up in Godric's Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumour is that Lily and James Potter are -are- that they're- _dead_.'

Dumbledore nodded fervently. Professor McGonagall whined.

'Lily and James… I can't believe it… I didn't want to believe it… Oh, Albus…'

Dumbledore shrugged Professor McGonagall's head off of his shoulder. 'I know… It is no reason to be such a cry baby, though. But I know…'

Professor McGonagall's voice trembled as she went on. 'That's not all. They're saying he tried to kill the Potter's daughter, Mattie. But -he couldn't. He couldn't kill that little girl. No one knows why, or how, but they're saying that when he couldn't kill Mattie Potter, Voldemort's heart somehow broke -and that's why he's gone.'

Dumbledore shrugged once more.

'It's -it's true?' shrieked Professor McGonagall. 'After all he's done… all the people he made fun of… he couldn't kill a little girl? It's just ridiculous… of all the things to stop him… but how in the name of heaven did Mattie survive?'

'You can only guess,' said Dumbledore. 'I'm not telling you what I know.'

Professor McGonagall pulled out a comb and ran it through her fluffy hair. Dumbledore choked on his licorice and took a golden watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a very odd watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers; instead, little pictures of pop singers were moving around the edge. It didn't make any sense at all. Dumbledore put it back in his pocket and said, 'Hagrid's late. I suppose it was he who told you I'd be here, the sneaky git?'

'Yes,' said Professor McGonagall. 'And I don't suppose you're going to tell me _why_ you're here, of all places?'

'Do I have a choice? I've come to bring Mattie to her aunt and uncle. They're not the only family she has left, so I drew lots.'

'You don't mean -you _can't_ mean the people who live _here_?' screamed Professor McGonagall, jumping to her feet and pointing at number four. I've been watching all of them all day. You couldn't find seven people who are less like us. And they've got these sons -I saw them biting their own toenails because they were hungry. Mattie Potter come and live here!'

'Not there. _Here_ ,' said Dumbledore, pointing at number six. 'It's the best place for her. Her aunt and uncle won't obviously explain anything to her when she's older, so I've written them a poem.'

'A poem?' Professor McGonagall chortled. 'Really, Dumbledore, a poem? Can I proofread it? It has to be perfect. She'll be famous -a legend- I wouldn't be surprised if today was known as Mattie Potter Day in future -there will be books written about Mattie -every child in our world will know her name!'

'Exactly,' said Dumbledore, blushing very hard. 'No, you can't proofread it. I'm very confident in my writing skills. Besides, it only explains why I'm leaving them Mattie. She'll be famous for something she won't even remember! Can't you see how much better off she'll be, growing up away from grown ups who dress up like her?'

Professor McGonagall tightened her Moncler around her chest to hide the baby pajamas she was wearing underneath it and said 'Yes -yes, you're right, of course. But how is the girl getting here, Dumbledore? Can she walk?'

She craned her head to inspect the street.

'Hagrid's bringing her.'

'You think it - _wise_ \- to trust Hagrid with something as fragile as a baby?'

'I would trust Hagrid with my life,' said Dumbledore.

'But you're not a baby,' said Professor McGonagall pointedly. 'You can't pretend he's not skilled. He does tend to-what was that?'

A loud booming sound had broken the silence around them. They both looked down the street as a huge motorbike fell out of the air and crashed on the road in front of them. Something rolled out of the basket that was fixed on the handlebar.

If the motorbike was huge, the man sprawled beside it was not. He was almost the same size as a normal man, just a little bit bigger than usual. His face was hidden by his shiny, wavy hair and his perfectly pruned beard. He stood back up, dusted his clothes and pointed at the bundle of blankets on the ground.

'We're here, Professor Dumbledore, sir,' he said in a booming voice.

'No problems, were there?'

'No, sir -house was almost destroyed but I got her out all right before the Muggles started takin' pictures. She almost fell off as we was flyin' over Bristol.'

Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward to scoop the bundle of blankets up. Inside, just visible, was a baby girl, still fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair over her forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like an infinity symbol.

'Is that where-?' whispered Professor McGonagall.

'Yes,' said Dumbledore. 'She'll have that ridiculous scar for ever.'

'Couldn't you do something about it instead of making fun of her, Dumbledore?'

'Even if I could, I wouldn't. It just looks too priceless. Besides, scars can come in useful. I have one myself on my upper thigh which is a perfect map of a place I've never been to. Well -give her here, Professor McGonagall -we'd better get this over with.'

Dumbledore took Mattie in his arms and turned towards the Dursleys' house.

'Could I -could I say goodbye to her, sir?' asked Hagrid.

He bent his head over Mattie and patted her on the head. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a deafening scream: 'Bye then Mattie! See ya in ten years!'

'Shhh!' hissed Professor McGonagall. 'You'll wake her and she'll cry her lungs out!'

'Sorry,' grunted Hagrid. 'But I wanted to make sure she heard me. I couldn't leave her without saying goodbye.'

'Yes, yes, I get it Hagrid. But you can't just yell at a sleeping baby!' Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid on the shoulder as Dumbledore stepped over the flowerbeds and walked to the front door. He dropped Mattie on the doorstep, took an envelope out of his Moncler, let it fall on the baby's face and then came back to the other two. For a full hour the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle; all trying to hold back fits of giggles.

'Well,' said Dumbledore finally, 'that's that. We've no business staying here. Unless someone wants to play a game of ding dong ditch?'

He looked around hopefully.

'Nah,' said Hagrid, yawning. 'Goin' to bed. G'night, Professor McGonagall -Professor Dumbledore, sir.'

Rubbing his eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid took off running down the street.

'I shall see you soon, I suppose, Professor McGonagall,' said Dumbledore, nudging her in the ribs. Professor McGonagall nudged him back in response.

Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he stopped and cast a look on the street lamps. There was nothing he could do to light them back up. At least he still had his night lights.

'I'll see you in ten years, Mattie,' he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his hair and beard he was gone.

A gust of wind sent a mailbox fly over the wild hedges of Public Drive, which lay silent and littered with burger wrappers under the inky sky, the very first place you would expect something dodgy to happen. Mattie Potter rolled over inside her blankets without waking up. One small trickle of saliva dropped on the envelope beside her and she slept on, not knowing she was special, not knowing she was famous, not knowing she would be woken in a few hours' time by Mrs Dursley's screams of joy as she opened the front door to put out a dozen milk bottles, nor that she would spend the next few weeks being laughed at and told off by her cousin Dary… She couldn't know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were getting drunk and yelling at the top of their lungs: 'To Mattie Potter -the girl who lived!'


End file.
